Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

I have lost faith in universal panaceas - work is the one thing in which I really believe.

The fact, and the intuition or logic about the fact, are severe coordinates in fiction. In the short story they must cross with hair-line precision.

But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.

The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.